


A New Habit

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:50:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly chances on Bahorel at Christmas Eve. He employs his aid to fulfill a favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Habit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Villainyandgoodcheekbones (JeanLuciferGohard)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanLuciferGohard/gifts).



> Written for Miserable Holidays Fic Exchange (2013)

Feuilly was cold. It was a condition more attributed to the weather than his personality. Christmas in Paris was not a warm affair, and though the chill could be eased by throwing oneself in the forays of a pub, Feuilly was not one to lose himself in liquor. In truth, he was a weak drinker. He permitted himself a bottle at the most important of celebrations, and if at the end of the night, he enacted the role of body porter into apartments, it was not because he held himself well, but because he hardly drunk at all.

Feuilly ran his hands against his arms. The warmth was minimal. His coat was thin, his head was bare, but the pair of gloves that the landlady had given him kindled his soul. The streets were lit by both moon and lamp, and he found no difficulty in navigating the winding alleys. He walked quickly, both to keep his blood pumping and to catch up with the proceedings in his destination. Shops and pubs flitted through his eyes, and he silently wished that no further incident come to him in his journey.

It was at this point in the story that Feuilly met a lowlife called Henri-Honoré. The reader, in deserving the absolute truth, would be duly informed that Henri-Honoré serves nothing in this story but to bring two men together, and he would do so admirably.

Henri-Honoré Bouchard stumbled his way into the corner of Rue de Bourbon and Rue de Belle Chasse while managing to simultaneously sing a ditty and slip face first into the pavement. The streets of Paris were wet with melted snow, but it would be wholly unfair to blame Henri-Honoré’s fall to precipitation alone. Some men deserved a slap in the face. Henri-Honoré’s body sent a resounding thud across the street, and as Feuilly turned and saw the seemingly dead man, his feet moved of their own accord.

A doll shop had obstructed Feuilly’s view of the path at the corner, but between his hasty steps and the sound of his own breathing, Feuilly heard a holler from the side: “Bouchard, you lout! Come back here before you die of frost! You are much easier to lift when you are not as rigid.” It was a voice that Feuilly knew and knew well, and with the knowledge that the owner was coming for them, his heart settled.

Bahorel can carry this one.

They reached the lowlife at the same time, Feuilly at his feet and Bahorel near his shoulders. Bahorel was just as inappropriately dressed as Feuilly, but what Feuilly lacked in proper thickness of cloth, he trumped with lack of cloth entirely. His shirt and vest were open at the front, barely obscured by the collar of a ravishing coat. Feuilly greeted him with a shy nod; he returned it with a wild grin; poor Henri-Honoré was unconscious.

“Your friend?” Feuilly asked.

“Somewhat,” Bahorel said.

It was at this opportune moment that Henri-Honoré had a fit of consciousness and exclaimed, “Down with the pear!” He slept soon after.

When they had recovered from this outburst, the two men wasted no time in getting him to his feet. Despite his earlier misgiving, Feuilly gripped Henri-Honoré’s armpits to hoist him up. A stranger was one thing, but a possible recruit was another matter entirely. In one quick motion, Feuilly lifted him, and the effort would have ruined his balance had Bahorel not been quick to assist. Taking each side, they placed Henri-Honoré’s arms around their shoulders, and with one gruelling step after another, they dragged him back to the cafe.

When they had safely deposited him to the steps of the establishment, Feuilly bent to his knees and gulped as much air as he could. Hauling did not agree with his constitution, for he was accustomed to delicate work and cramped spaces. The cold stung his throat, but it would have to do. Thick warmth emanated from the cafe, and music eased itself to ring truly out on the city streets. Occasionally, this would mix with bouts of laughter and cheerful greetings. All things considered, it seemed to be a happy joint, but Feuilly had better places to be in. He rose to his full height, gave a quick nod to Bahorel, and turned. He had barely made three steps when Bahorel called out to him.

“Hold there, Feuilly!” Bahorel bellowed from behind, and Feuilly glanced back. The lamp post cast Bahorel in shadow, but Feuilly could see his formidable outline come after him. “Do you have some place to be?” he asked. “Surely some warmth would do you good tonight.” Feuilly only gave a grave nod as Bahorel stood before him. “Indeed I do, but I simply couldn’t leave your friend there.” He gestured to the still-sleeping Henri-Honoré, who seemed to have adopted the steps as his throne and stretched there to languish slowly.

Bahorel shook his head. “You have my thanks, my friend. We seem to have distracted you from your affairs. Where are you off to at this time? I would have thought that you were with Enjolras.”

It was Feuilly’s turn to shake his head. “He has gone to Combeferre’s house in Poitiers until the year ends, and Courfeyrac is due to pay his sisters a visit in Aix. As for the bini, they are nowhere to be found, but there is a chance that Grantaire is with them as well. I know nothing of Prouvaire.”

Bahorel grinned once more. “Prouvaire does not miss a trip home.”

Feuilly smiled as well, though his was tinged with sorrow. “And you? Surely your parents miss you?”

Bahorel burst into hearty laughter, and when he did, all his upper body shook, from his chest to his shoulders to his jaw. “Of course they do! But they also know how troublesome I think of travel. A fiacre across boulevards is one, but a four-day journey is another, and I much prefer to walk. Walking lets me see shops that need a little rattling.”

Feuilly slitted his eyes. “The shops are better left alone, you know? Their destruction meets no end but destruction.”

“Hmm, I find it more palatable to break windows than bury my nose in a book. My fists bleed, but that way, something is always bound to happen, and the dust does not agree with me.”

As if remembering a time when dust entered his nostrils, Bahorel crinkled his nose and made a motion to rub it with a hand. Bahorel was an impressive man, but the way his face seemed to squeeze into his nose made him a few steps short of charming. Feuilly smiled at the thought. “In some ways, yes, but there is much to be had in learning what we are fighting for than simply fighting.”

Bahorel regarded him and nodded. He placed an arm around Feuilly’s shoulders and walked them to the direction he had been going earlier. The smaller man could only go along, but he did not object to the warmth. “You did not answer my question, though. Where are you off to celebrate now that our friends are elsewhere? Is there a mistress waiting for you at the end of this corner?”

A shade of red spread liberally behind Feuilly’s ears. He mumbled, “She is more of an acquaintance really.”

Bahorel, who had not been expecting this answer, guffawed loudly. He slapped Feuilly between the shoulder blades while offering his most sincere congratulations. “It is not as how you think it,” Feuilly said. “She offered me a kindness, and I would like to return the favour.”

“And what sort of favour do you plan to give?” Bahorel asked with a smirk. Feuilly was not as amused. It was comical image – a lean, young man looking up to a herculean being as if he was about to give a stern talking to. The fan maker regarded Bahorel with a frown resembling a mother berating her own children, which would beg the question as to where, or from whom, Feuilly might have copied the expression.

After all, his only mother was Paris.

“Labour,” he replied with grim resolution. The answer was once again something Bahorel had not considered. His brows rose in curiosity. “Labour?”

“Hard labour to be exact.” Feuilly replied with a smile, amusement seeping into his tone. He crossed his arms and furrowed his brows in false contemplation. A thought seemed to have struck him. His eyes widened and he turned to Bahorel with renewed vigour. “Perhaps you can assist me.” Their walking paused. “You’ve exerted enough effort tonight. Surely you would not be averse to another?”

Bahorel was well and truly intrigued.

\---

They walked the rest of the Rue de Bourbon quickly. As previously mentioned in this story, Paris was a melting pool of snow. Moonlight glimmered on the wet pavement, lending a certain glow to the cobbled stones. The streets were deserted but from lost souls like Henri-Honoré. There were no gamins hustling about, retired to their dens to hide from the cold, or perhaps relishing whatever small feast their small hands could grab. Occasionally, they would get a whiff of the frost fair across the Seine. The smell of tasty meats took to the air and blessed wayfarers who were still about. As they passed buildings, Feuilly would see glimpses of the river, silent and dark but for a few stolen reflections of light. They were a considerable distance away, but Feuilly felt like he would be lost in those icy depths had he chanced to look too long. A shiver ran through him, and he would not have noticed had Bahorel not rubbed a hand along his back.

When they had crossed most of the Bourbon, a new scent permeated their nostrils. Bahorel tried to place the smell. It was not the rich aroma of a lavish Christmas feast, nor the delectable whiffs of sweets that had come to them earlier. And yet it smelt pleasant, drab yet warm, subtle yet filling, and tinged with something akin to hope.

They turned the corner towards the Quai d’Orsai, and Bahorel was greeted with a crowd of people huddled in the middle of the street. At the sidewalk, a long wooden table was erected, and a woman leant over it as if guarding the decade-old pots laid out in a row. Bahorel stood on his toes to see the contents. Had a shop offered an irresistible bargain at Christmas Eve? It was possible, but when the woman held up a copper bell and let it ring, he dismissed his theory.

At the clanging of the bell, the huddle broke and formed into a line. Children and adults alike fell on orderly queues, with the children scrambling to get in front. It was then that Bahorel noticed their state of dress. A torn coat here, a shawl there, the crowd was an amalgam of rag and salvaged fabric, but despite the abundance of cloth, skin was still exposed. Shoulders still shivered. The children who ran back to their parents were urged to go back for seconds. Those without parents eased themselves between the adults. Be it by miracle or pure Christmas cheer, they were not swatted away. One orphan in particular made his way to Feuilly and dragged him by the hand towards the table where chestnut soup was being served. Feuilly nodded, and with a glance to Bahorel, bid leave and readily followed.

The serving lady was busy handing out bowls and filling them with soup, but at the sound of her ward’s call, she turned and gave them a smile. This lady, whom Bahorel would later know as Madame Hucheloup, was the one who’d given Feuilly a warm cup of coffee the day prior, and to whom Feuilly vowed to return the favour.

Bahorel watched as Feuilly took a ladle and filled out bowls with warm soup. He handed them out to the people in line. The older ones who took it gave him a look of gratitude, and Feuilly nodded in turn. But it was the children who made him sigh and crinkle his eyes. Gamins that he’d seen looting from pockets the day before fell properly in line, and when they accepted their bowls, they looked up at him and grinned madly. Feuilly mirrored their expression, and in their presence, it was as if he had never been more alive. Similar experiences bring souls together, and for Feuilly, he and these children shared a sacred pact of solidarity.

Feuilly stole a glance towards Bahorel, and with a rare display of command, beckoned him to come. Bahorel contemplated at his knuckles, and in seeing the scars and scratches, he considered that his hands might look just as well with a ladle as with a bandage. He made his way to Feuilly. An apron had been set aside for him.


End file.
